Philadelphia
by radelvollen
Summary: I can't remember the last time I just lay on grass, in a park and looked up. Marvelling at the glare of the sun reflecting against my cornea; ignoring the slight stinging sensation it caused, where sometimes I'd have to blink away tears borne from a daze.
1. Preface

_**Philadelphia  
**__(C) 'Antediluvian // Please don't reproduce or alter without permission. (- I really don't know why you'd want to.)  


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Preface;  
**Daydreaming in the night time, on a rainy day, after consuming too much caffeine and sugar.**

I can't remember the last time I just lay on grass, in a park and looked up. Marvelling at the glare of the sun reflecting against my cornea; ignoring the slight stinging sensation it caused, where sometimes I'd have to blink away tears borne from a daze.

I try recalling it now, back not quite leaning against a soon-to-be-dismantled IKEA chair, head tilted against the subtly bulbous top of my spine- eyes closed, listening to feel good music. Spreading my fingers across air, I can't recreate the feel of grass between my fingers, but I know how it's supposed to look. To atone, I try and visualize the drift of heavy set clouds contrasted with the stark blue of a winter sky.

There would be swings pitched between pieces of blackened bark, empty as they were noisy. A forgotten cubby house with the slippery slope rough from use and scratched by unidentifiable objects found only in the deep of children's pockets.

Perhaps, a housewife and her sister, walking an ugly pram along crooked sidewalks, looking strangely at the boy sprawled against the hill, a little out of reach from the holed shadows cast by a large tree and the gaps between its leaves.

There is a book, bent and forgotten in a cast off bag, and I wonder why I thought it would be a good idea to bring it- the weight and its movement bumping against my thigh would only serve as a nuisance.

Only later, when I'm distanced from the local park, frustrated at my lack of awareness- some genius forget their house keys- and waiting for the weary return of a parent, would I feel grateful that I bought some reading material, and only after a few more turns of the clockhands would I berate myself for not starting to devour the strings of letters and allusion that is the good novel held open by my permaturely wrinkled hands.

The song blaring from my computer speakers would grind to an untimely end, me and my tendency of messing with song speeds to up their tempo, the sound quality raspy due to setting the volume a level and a bit too high. Slowly, I would lift my head from the comfortable position it lay in, back curving into its familiarly horrible posture, and a sense of sight- relaxed from breathing a bit of black, once more assaulted by the harshness of a white screen made of blue-green-red pixels from the harmless visible spectrum.

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**AN: **Wanna take a gander at where this is headed? All I know is one day I will write something that isn't a story. Because a story has a complication and a resolution.  
What is a story without a complication and in turn, without a resolution?  
A significant memory.

I want to write something like that. I believe William S Burroughs achieved it with Naked Lunch, but maybe I'm much to immature to read between the lines of his genius.

Yes it will be about Zero.

**Things To Know: **_Philadelphia _is one of my personal works being re-worked into a VK fanfiction- ergo; **AU** people, **alternate universe**.


	2. Zero

_**Philadelphia  
**(C) Antediluvian. // Please don't reproduce or alter without permission.

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I live in a building of red brick and grey cement. Chipped and coarse and flecked. The rotting, antique oak beneath me creak and groan at the slightest step, streaks and scars from dragging furniture ingrained. A browned persian rug lay at the foot of a curb-recovered couch, bought with a handful of change and a lone note that would have gone towards a larger meal to hide suspicious stains on the wood. On a stack of council owned books is the one mug and one teaspoon in the whole loft. Going into the kitchen, a visitor would spot a spoon and its other half, a pair of chopsticks, two bowls and two plates. All white, all still wearing some scrap piece of the price sticker from the bargain store which I never cared to scratch off. The taps- even in the bathroom- were copper and spotted with cataracts of grey and it was a work-out in its own to mix lukewarm water.

There was also the widescreen LCD gathering dust in one corner and a sound system doing the same right next to it. Gifts from a guy who bit off more than he could chew at one point in life and continues to do so even to this day. I thanked him as best I could- which wasn't to say I thanked him as honestly as I treat everything else- but I never got around to turning the sets on. He bought a pal along one day, out of the blue as always and gasped in discontent at spying said gifts still wrapped in large boxes and unmoved from where they were placed beside the tweed green couch; the one with yellowed sponge and cotton wool popping at the seams and unintentional cuts. The gift paper had tea-coloured rings in a couple of places and it was decided that the whole she-bang be pulled out of their homes and into mine- all this happening faster than I could say 'No'.

His friend disappeared off into the galley with a puff of smoke followed by a string of nasal coughing and a reprimand that seemed more instinctual than necessary. I heard the rustling of plastic and the familiar dull clink of cans meeting the surface of the outdated red laminate countertop. It matched the walls and clashed with the yellow clock- a blessing from a previous tenant, working batteries aside.

On the very fringes of the garage-sale carpet lay a beat up music player. Violet in finish, turned a cloudy, bleak lilac by clear silicone protective cover that was far from being actually clear. I'm sure the choice of veneer wasn't an accident and I'm sure it didn't come from the same guy who handed me ostentatious black blocks with numerous unnamed knobs and buttons- booming subwoofers which claimed to shake the very foundations of ones home- which, by the way; why would anyone want that? Besides, if it did come from him, surely it would have been orange. He thinks his obnoxious nature something alike to charisma; most of the time such charms cause him issues. Anyway, that's what I kept telling myself. That it was from her. I listen to it everyday, knowing it was from her.

Lastly, at the furthest corner of the house there is a low bookshelf. The only thing I truly bought for myself. By truly, I mean that it is the only thing I've every really wanted to buy past the stages of need or inevitability. There was barely a novel, paperback or hardcover sitting on the dark, painted wood. An old-style alarm clock that stop being re-wound long ago, a disposable camera which I never manage to find the time to develop, textbooks from the last weeks of high-school and an old album. They were things I didn't know where else to put, already sporting a thick layer of grey fluff and dust.

Slipping off my shoes, laying them against the wall, I sat on the carpet- my neck arching against the curve of moss cushioning and I fingered the dips and blunt splinters in the floor. There was a deep one, then a long splinter, then a slight indentation that curled into a swirly knot.

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**AN:** Wow, I actually got an alert on this- thank you so much. In any case, there is a point to this chapter. Yes, that's right. Figure it out please... really... _please_. Yes my characterization of Zero seems way off at the moment- but be reminded that this is a) AU, so the omitted circumstances that shape him play a large role on how he is going to be. Oh, and no vampires.

_Edited. I used way too many comma's and I stumbled on maintaining tenses. Hopefully this is a bit better. Thank you._


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